


Get Right Back (To Where we Started From)

by banrionsi



Series: GGRBTWWSF universe [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Making Love, Slow Burn, These hoes need marriage counselling, Yearning, alternate universe - not canon, mutual pining/mutual hatred, set in our world in an ambiguous era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27422740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banrionsi/pseuds/banrionsi
Summary: You and Jango have drifted over the years, further and further apart until now, you both sleep in separate wings and barely talk. However fear not, not all is lost. There was real love and passion in your marriage once. Can you work together to rekindle it?
Relationships: Jango Fett/Reader
Series: GGRBTWWSF universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100105
Comments: 28
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

He keeps all the official and financial documents (the important ones) in his bedroom. In a stately cabinet, unassumingly tucked in a shadowy corner. Mahogany, waxed, clawed feet. Blending in with heavy drapes, a canopy of deep crimson around his bed. You can only assume that he has kept the chambers decoration the same. Imagine that sometimes he is like you. Lying, lonely and cold inside your chest, in a too plush bed, too big for one person. Surrounded by antiquated dated decoration, feeling like you’re sleeping in someone tomb, far far older than you and long gone. Soft furs and elegant dark wood, polished to a shine by Aggie. It’s all undoubtedly luxurious, and a better woman would be be awed in gratitude at her surroundings, but you aren’t a better woman and the opulence makes you nauseous.

You dine on fine china, with cutlery topped by ivory. You soothe yourself in the evenings, by drinking golden milk, and looking over the waves crashing over the rocks, admire the laced froth as it settles into crags and rock-pools. No bystanders and innocent ramblers polluting your personal (paid-for) view of land and sea, that has been here an eternity before you and will be here an eternity after you. You write letters to your little boy with the finest tipped of quills and silky ink imported from the other side of the globe. Your address book hasn’t been touched in so long that you expect it to be likely covered in a layer of fine dust. You have Boba’s school address memorised and well, you don’t write to anyone else. The outside world and everyone in it means nothing to you here. Jango gives you everything you need, through the narrow bars in your fancy gilded cage. A beautiful cage but a cage nonetheless.

You don’t like to dwell on it too much. You are eaten up with resentment as it is, no need to make things worse for yourself. And besides, it’s all worth it for your son . You and Jango are united in one aspect only - your mutual desire to give Boba the best life you can, and if that means pretending you are both in love and normal and simply just not physically affectionate with each other, than that’s what you’ll do. Plenty of couples just aren’t touchy. No, you both can pretend to love each other for your boy. Boba is what matters. 

The problem is when Boba isn’t around. When he’s shipped off to school for nine months of the year, except for holidays and the occasional weekend. It isn’t right. A boy needs his family, he needs that time to bond with you and Jango and make memories, and it upsets you deeply every time he has to go. You hold back your tears until he is safely seated in the car Jango has arranged, and waves at you both through the rear window until he is gone. Once the car is down the drive and out of sight, you cannot hold back the grief aching in your heart. Tears roll down your cheeks in torrents and you rush to your chambers to sob freely, and hide from Jango’s silent judgment. By the time your chest stops heaving and the salt dries on your cheeks, you are usually already composing your next letter to Boba.

You used to be a modern woman. You danced, partied, drank, smoked fags, fresh out of college with an honours degree. You were going to be an independent woman. You were going to have a proper career and one day, you were going to get your PhD. You dreamed of publishing poetry, maybe even a novel. Owning a studio for paints too. Embracing the arts as well the sciences, and having a big house filled with chrome and glass and gadgets. And you were going to be completely independent. You would take lovers, sure, but none were going to last. You had your natal family back home across the waves, and would return to them once you had made your money, to have that oh so modern house built. On the coast, you’d imagined. So you could watch the waves.  
Well.  
You have the waves, the money, and the big house.  
Too bad none of it is yours.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And yet I want to return to you/as you were./ Will we ever live so intensely again?/You walk away and I cannot follow"  
> \- Love, Eavan Boland

Today marks the beginning of a new month and Jango is still home. You find the imprint of his presence in half drunk mugs of coffee left on the side tables, and dishes that Aggie is already washing when you come to the kitchen with your dirtied cutlery from dinner. You dance a delicate and well practiced routine around each other, ensuring there are no awkward greetings to stutter through or painful casual touches arrested halfway through their motion. Ships passing in the night.

He usually doesn’t stay this long. He operates on a timeline of one month home and then two weeks to a month gone for work. You aren’t sure which one you prefer. When he’s gone you are free to move around the house, and wander into all the rooms, searching for something to alleviate your chronic boredom, without the fear that he’ll be in there, and you’ll have to exit on light feet lest he see you. When he’s gone, you cannot ignore the loneliness. Even his silent presence helps to stave off the crushing misery that comes with being entombed in this isolated, old, too big house. Just you and Aggie, but then she leaves once night falls and her evening chores are finished. Then it is just you. Alone in the dark.

Agatha isnt much of a comfort anyway. She’s a waspish thing of a woman, all sharp angles and curt words. She’s polite to you of course, (after all, you are still Lady Fett of this house), but the veneer is obviously just that. She looks at you with cold eyes, pinched thin lips, stick straight spine. Sometimes you wonder if she’s trying to push out her bosom when she contorts her back like that, in her strange display of self-discipline. Hoping, maybe, that your husband will look. Her hope is pathetic and it gives you a derisive snort to think about it. Jango never even spares Aggie a glance, no matter how many hot toddy’s she brings him.

Your husband is many things but he is always faithful. Despite all your qualms with him, that is something that had never had to gnaw at your mind. Jango holds true to his values and his family, above all else.

At this moment, he is in the sunroom. Steaming cup of coffee, black, tucked fast behind the crook of his knee while he sits and reads. You watch him from the hallway, through the crack in the door. Like a voyeur. You were on your way to the kitchen, to fix yourself a sandwich, but you stopped dead in your tracks upon catching a glimpse of him. He makes a perfectly idyllic scene. Handsome face illuminated by bright rays of sunlight. Golden and rusted leaves outside, soft rain pitter-patting against the panes of the wrap-around window. He looks cozy and soft, and it makes something deep in your chest warm and then constrict slightly. Your eyes follow his movements greedily as his pink tongue flicks out to lick his thumb and turn the page with a hum. There is no frown marring his brow, his shoulders relaxed and dropped from his ears. 

In another time and life, you would have slipped inside and joined him. Plucked the book from his hands and safely placed his coffee on the stand. You would have plonked yourself on his lap, heavy and exaggerated, to coax a low laugh from his lips. His eyes would’ve lit up, happy crows feet crinkling around the sides. Big hands resting on your waist, foreheads pressed together.

Now, you stand outside hidden from him, and watch the ghost of your past self murmur something into his ear and giggle as he nuzzles in to your neck and leaves soft kisses on your skin. It feels like an invasion of privacy, like you’re intruding on too intimate a moment, too intimate a memory. Averting your eyes from him, you swallow the lump in your throat and continue towards the kitchen, head raised and neutral expression reset. 

Jango lifts his head to watch your shadow with heavy lids, slip further from him until the impression of you is no longer within sight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You reminisce on your time with Jango, to ponder just where it all went wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added an extra chunk to this chapter so if you read this when i first posted, then give it a reread because this babey is updated xx

Evening draws in quickly, swooping in on bruised clouds and a howling wind. The house rattles and groans with each crackling boom of thunder, sends a tiny little pin in your bed somewhere vibrating furiously until it finally stills, right before the next bout of nature’s wrath. You cannot see the coast from your bedroom, but you can imagine with ease how deafening the roar of the waves must be tonight. Dark and deep, no glimmering moonlight to shine on the crests of the turbulent tide. The thought of that impossibly violent force, sends shivers through you and a tightness in your tummy.

The crackling of logs on your fire is a comfort, and tonight you don’t mind the heavy furs and ancient steadfast furniture surrounding you. Everything is sturdy cured wood, and fine polished brass, iron, and ivory. This house has a strength to it, the kind of resilience that comes with a long proud history and countless lifetimes memorialised in the grains of its frame. You snuggle deeper into your covers, brush a stray hair from your face as you reminisce when you were first told of Fett Manor.

Jango had been in the early stages of courting you then. Impressing you with tales of his large ancestral home and proud family lineage. You’d laughed at him, eyeing his scuffed boots and the silvery slash underneath his eye. He certainly hadn’t looked like the type of man to own a house so stately, that it had its own jack-of-trades housemaid, and wings. Didn’t bounty hunters usually just sort of live out of inns and motels, when not sleeping their cars? He’d only smirked at you with dark eyes, and told you that he wasn’t like those sort of bounty hunters.

You’d thought him so dashing and handsome, mysterious as anything. A little dangerous too, but not to you. Never to you. Your fingers twitch in the sheets next to you, remembering how heavy his protective arm would be around your waist in the dodgy bars you’d frequent. How once he’d took you back to your apartment, he’d snap his hips into you achingly good and make you whine, make you promise to be his and only his.

Releasing a shaky breath slowly, you turn on your side to watch the fire dance and the sparks flutter in the air. Admire the twisting floral patterns in the wrought iron of the fireplace, the plum wood outlining it. Times like this, you thank God for Agatha. Sure, you could probably light the fire yourself if you had to but…its so nice for someone else to do it for you and God knows you’d feel far too awkward to ask Jango to come in here to do it. Then, you’d have to actually say it out loud “come to my bedroom” and make it real. Saying things out loud makes them fact and no longer something you can just ignore. To acknowledge that you both sleep in separate chambers, in separate wings, would  
be too much.

Another booming tremor runs through the house, and sets off that infuriating buzzing pin again. Tossing your head on your pillow, you huff out a frustrated sigh through your nose. If it werent for that pin, somewhere in the frame of your canopied bed, you’d be out like a light right now. Roaring fire, steady streaming rain, thunder, cozy underneath a myriad of blankets and furs? You can’t imagine more perfect conditions for sleep and yet here you are, awake.

Wistfully, you think of the bed you and Jango used to share in the chambers he now resides in alone. The massive bed could house all three of your little family comfortably, and most importantly – you don’t recall a single creak or irritating noise coming from it. 

Furrowing your brows, you try to recall the last time you slept in that bed. You don’t know. Cant even pinpoint when precisely you started sleeping in this bed, this wing, instead. One night you were cuddled up to Jango, heard resting on his chest and listening to his heartbeat. And then another night, you were sleeping in the west wing alone while Jango was in the east. Miles of empty bed next to him, unsure of when exactly he and his wife drifted so far apart.

You suppose it started as all separations of lovers do. One little naggling grievance with him that grew and grew, until when next you looked at him, you were overcome and shocked by your own vicious resentment. Passionate people don’t just reserve their passion for love and lust, it seeps into all aspects. Passionate anger, passionate disgust.

Maybe it all started when you fell pregnant with Boba. While he grew and took root in your womb, another seed began to take as well. When you and Jango relocated to his family manor, and he began to leave on longer and longer jobs. That seed of bitterness shot up an inch. When you had to leave your job behind, and say goodbye to your friends and the partying and the hope of ever returning to your ancestral home – never mind Jangos. Yes, you suppose that’s when it began to really grow branches and leaves. The little things you hated him for, were one day not so little. One day, you woke up and they were all you knew.

***

You wake up in the morning thoroughly unrested, eyes crusted and lips gummy. You feel different as you slip a robe around your shoulders and make your way the staircase, treading light steps. Something has changed, shifted place within you. You feel tired, yes, due to your bad sleep, but invigorated also. New life and new breath in all the ways that matter. Wind in your sails.

Halting your steps in the main landing, you cast your head to the east wing. Right down that hall, Jango is sleeping alone on that King sized mattress. You avert your gaze and continue down the stairs into the main entrance and then into the kitchen. Kettle boiling, you pop on your toast and turn to stare out the window and evaluate last night's destruction. No fallen trees, you note. That’s good. Just leaves strewn everywhere, but then that's not much of a change than what it was like before with Novembers flights of fancy. You relax against the counter behind you, and sigh in relief. Fett Manor has successfully weathered yet another storm.

There's no Aggie today to scurry around, dusting shelves with strangely aggressive movements. She has the weekends off and today is what would be a blissful Saturday off for you too - if you were employed. You drum your nails against the granite they rest on and idly muse. You’ve never had a housekeeper before marrying Jango, never have been able to afford one. Agatha is paid a pretty price too for her labour, and as the Manors housekeeper, lives in the cottage owned by the Fetts a little further out on the outskirts of the woods. It is a fine little house, and any upkeep it requires is paid for by your dear husband. No one could ever accuse the Fetts of being stingy or unfair bosses. That is for sure. 

Though for all your justness, she reserves all her appreciation for Jango. The thought sends a twitch to your eye, as it does everytime you think of her obvious affections for your husband. She hardly poses any competition, decades your senior as she is, but her sheer gall is infuriating. You may not control the finances but you are still Jangos equal. And she doesn’t even try to hide her mooning gaze from you. Inhaling deeply, you wish you could wipe that aura of snugness from her .

But, there isnt really any point ruminating on it (and honestly you need to get a hobby instead of obsessing over the housekeeper), so instead you turn your attention back to the kitchen. Humming under your breath as you wait for the kettle to join you and the tweeting songbirds you can hear from outside, and sing its low whistle. You have a mug set out for one, sugar and milk already waiting in it for the tea. Biting your lip gently, your gaze drifts toward the little clock perched above the sink. Nine a.m. Jango should be waking soon.

Predictably, he stumbles into the kitchen at 9:15 on the dot. A punctual man if anything. He is surprised to see you waiting there, judging by his widened eyes and momentarily uneven inhale. Silently, you hand him the coffee you’ve had waiting, made how he likes it (black, unsweetened), and offer him a smile. A soft and timid thing, but genuine. He doesn’t know what to say, and his movements are clumsy and slow as he takes the hot mug from your grasp. You wonder if he did not sleep well last night either. Rough fingers brush yours, and the sensation is old and familiar but feels new at the same time. 

Together, you drink in silence and listen to the soft bird song.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We disagree to disagree, we divide, we differ;Yet each night as I lie in bed beside you  
> And you are faraway curled up in sleep  
> I array the moonlit ceiling with a mosaic of question marks;  
> How was it I was so lucky to have ever met you?"  
> \- The Difficulty that is Marriage, Paul Durcan  
> Or  
> You finally confront Jango.

Trudging through sodden decaying leaves, and squelching through mud you make a mental note to clean the driveway at some point this week. “At some point this week” – as if you have a particularly busy schedule. Nine til ten am, fully booked for eating breakfast and staring with blank and glassy eyes at whichever wall your eyes fall on first. A tight turn around on ten til eleven, wander around the house and see if anything needs to tidied away, except of course there isn’t because you have a housekeeper, and it’s only ever really you at home anyway. Eleven til eight, write letters to Boba, think about writing to your family back home and then don’t because it’s been so long you feel awkward. Bath to soak up time despite never really getting dirty because you don’t leave the house. Eight til midnight, somehow find the time to get yourself off with bored hands, in the same quick movements in under five minutes, and then try to ride the tails of post orgasm drowsiness into a fitful sleep.  


And yet, despite having nothing but downtime you never feel relaxed. Nothing really brings you joy anymore or excitement. Something vaguely pings in the back of your brain, something about zoo animals, variety and enrichment. You leave the tendrils of that thought unspun, no thank you. For another time perhaps.

Finally, you reach the gates and delve your hand into the mailbox. Saturday, two weeks since you last received a letter from sweet Boba. There is already an eager smile on your face, a spring in your step, excited to carefully open the envelope and read the conte- there’s nothing there. Frowning, you frantically flail your hand around the box. Nothing. Not a single sheaf of paper. You step back from the gates and swivel your head side to side, searching for a flash of white and cream amongst the muddied golden carpet you stand on. No. No sign of any mail that simply didn’t make it into the mailbox. There is no post for you today. 

You push down the wave of upset that rises up and squeeze your eyes shut, frustrated tears prickling under your lids. Your lip desperately wants to tremble but you hold steadfast and tuck it beneath your teeth. No post on Sundays, but surely your little boys letter will arrive Monday? You soothe yourself with that, only two more days til you can check again for correspondence. Turning around, you trod back to the house with weary and dejected steps.

You shake your boots off at the door, crusted with dirt as they are, and leave them there at the entrance. You’re heart still weighs heavy with disappointment and you contemplate what to do next. Maybe a cup of tea would soothe you. You find yourself, once again, treading left towards the kitchen. For a woman who doesn’t really have to do chores, you still find yourself in the kitchen a disproportionate amount of the time. You draw the kettle and brew your tea with automatic movements while your mind drifts elsewhere. You find yourself doing that a lot lately too. Or maybe it’s just that you’re more aware that you’re doing it.

Stirring the bagged leaves and adding in a drop of milk, one spoonful of sugar and then a second. That is how Boba likes it too. He tries his best to imitate his father in all aspects he can, but at eight years old black coffee is simply too bitter. Sometimes, Jango offers him sips from his own cup and you are always hasty to shoot him a glare (“How do times do I have to tell you not to do that? It’s too strong for a child”). But Jango knows his son too, and he is quick to shoot a wink at you when Boba sputters and grimaces and vows off coffee. Well, until inevitably he gets curious about it again.  
You throw your bag into the compost bin, teaspoon in the sink, and head up the stairs to your room. Steaming mug carefully cradled in your hands lest you mar the perfectly waxed floorboards. Aggie would have your head and the thought both amuses and frightens you.

The problem is that right now, you should be holding two mugs of tea. Maybe even a tray, to fit Jangos coffee on it. And you should be in the sunroom, all three of you but especially Boba. You should be running a hand through his hair, both of his parents teasing him about something stupid that he’ll laugh at until his cheeks are rosy. And instead, he is a lifetime away. With boys he doesn’t like, boys with notions, and strict teachers. You meet the faculty once a year and each time you leave, you want to drag Boba with you and never let him to return there. He’s just a boy, not some sort of tool to be trained to max efficiency and worth. Sitting on your chaise lounge and sipping your tea, you narrow your eyes and roll your shoulders back. Well, why shouldn’t you take him from there! He is your son, isn’t it your decision as much as Jangos? Why do you just agree? Why do you just give up and roll over and accept Jangos decision as final?

Your fingers tighten around the fine china and your breath begins to quicken. Jango doesn’t even like having your boy so far away in that place either. Family first, above all else. Isn’t that what you both the value the most? Yes, you nod to yourself and steel your resolve. You want your son back, here to breathe vitality and light back into the halls of Fett Mano, to breath life back into you.

You throw yourself off of the chaise and straighten your spine. Mug set down on the side table, you march from your chambers. All the way down the hall, out of the west wing until you reach the stairs, leading down to the main entrance. No this time you will not push your wants aside, you will not be a meek wife, you will say your piece and _you will get what you fucking want_. You stride into the East Wing, rushed steps echoing off the walls, all the way up to the chambers you used to share with your dear darling husband. You rap your knuckles harshly against the door, hard enough to wince at how it sends a sharp ache through the thin skin. You hear something knock over inside, probably jolted in his shock that you’ve actually deigned to visit this wing. You tap your foot impatiently and cross your arms over each other as you wait for him to answer you. He pulls open the door slowly and blinks at you, dark brows furrowed together in obvious confusion.

“What are you doing here?”, he asks you, and goddamn, it bugs you that despite your obvious ire and the unusual situation, the steady cadence of his baritone never falters.

Huffing out a breath through your nose, you barge past in him into his (your) chambers, and whirl around to face him. Behind you, the door slams off the adjoining wall to almost close on itself, opened just a crack.

Jangos posture is guarded, deep brown eyes wary as he cuffs the wide sleeves of his lounge shirt. Not quite sure what to make of this difference from your usual lethargic and indifferent state, you imagine.  
The words fly out of your mouth before you can lose your resolve.  
“I want our son back.”

You step forward into his space, mouth twisting into something ugly and fists curled tight at your sides.  
“I want him home. I can’t go on like this anymore. I want our son home, where he belongs”. You feel a little flame of pride flare inside you, that you’ve finally spoke your mind. Also, a little relief in that your voice didn’t break.

He shifts his weight to slightly cock his hip, and cross his arms together too. Mirroring you. He changes then, slips into someone aloof and all knowing. Defensive. You know all his tics intimately by now. He shifts from your husband who’s skin you long to caress and words you savour, to the condescending man who knows better than you always, who has the long suffering air of “oh here we go again, my silly flighty wife who doesn’t understand that sometimes things have to be a certain way – my way”.

“He can’t just come home”, he sighs. “He needs an education, to be trained, and the Insitute will do that better than anyone” .

You scoff and step even closer, close enough to smell the sea salt and cotton scent that follows him everywhere. “And you cannot do that hm? The great bounty hunter Jango Fett cannot train his own son, the way he and every succeeding forefather before him were trained?”, your voice is a low venomous hiss. The insinuation that he isn’t up to the task, sends him bristling and his hackles rising. He squares his chest against you, leans into your invasion of his space.

Tilting his head, warm breath ghosting across your lips, he growls. “Count Dooku wants him trained there. You know as well as I do that it wouldn’t be wise to go against his wishes”.

You shift your head back at that to let out an incredulous cackle and raise your eyebrows, “You’re telling me I haven’t had my boy, my only boy, with me for three years because you’re scared to piss off your geriatric boss? Is this a fucking joke?”.

Jango clicks his tongue and flexes his thick fingers over the swell of his bicep. 

“You don’t understand-“ 

Quickly interjecting, you smirk at him with still wild eyes.

“Oh I understand plenty. You’re domesticated now. Are you? What do you actually do, when you leave me here for weeks at a time? Do you still hunt bountys or do you run protection for the count, like a little guard dog? Maybe you run and get him wine when he drinks his goblet dry. Is that it?”

All your resentment, all your bubbling silent bitterness, comes flowing out to spit hot vitriol at him. And maybe it isn’t entirely fair of you but fuck, it feels so good to get it all out of your system.

Jango snaps at you then, “Enough!”. He is close you can feel the heat radiating from him, broad shoulders look even wider from how you are pressed into each others proximity.

You press your lips closed and simply raise your gaze over your shoulder to eye that cabinet, in the shadowy corner of his room exactly where you'd placed it when your first moved in. He follows your sightline and swallows. He knows you too, and he understands precisely what you silently implying.

His shoulders loose their tense stature and rolls his head down low to rest his chin on his chest.  
“I don’t- I don’t want to argue anymore. Okay?”, and suddenly he just sounds so tired.

“I know you miss him. I know. I do too. But I’m…there are things I haven’t told you about. I’m trying, I promise I’m trying.”

He lifts his head enough to lock pleading eyes with yours. Slowly, your hand moves to rest on the soft blue cotton covering his bicep and your forehead presses against the ridge of his brow. Your anger has lessened with this new development. In all honesty, you really weren’t expecting him to react with anything other than his own long repressed bones to pick. This time when you speak to him, you murmur low and gentle. “What do you mean Jango? What’s going on?”

And with that, he leads you over to the bed, to sit against the headboard and plush pillows you once used to lay your head on nightly. He settles beside you, shoulder to shoulder, pinky fingers brushing together from where they lay between you on crumpled sheets.  
And he begins to talk.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We love each other still. Across our day-to-day and ordinary distances we speak plainly. We hear each other clearly"  
> \- Love, Eavan Boland

Soothing heat of strong corded thigh pressed against the length of yours. Soft hairs dusted along his forearm, brushing against the skin of yours every time his chest rises and falls and his body moves with it. Steady breaths in and out, murmuring musicality of his timbre keeping you in sync with him and his pace. A slight incline of his head when he wants to emphasise a word or a point. Relaxed and worn cotton of his baby blue tunic, soft as a kiss where it shifts across your knuckles lying next to his hip. Treacled curls, streaked through with honey (and cool slate here and there, though you’d never say it), when the light catches just right. Plains of tawny gold skin , decorated with crows feet and a sharp scar you’ve always told him looked dashing. Warm eyes that hold a fierceness to them, a tenacity. Determination and will. A gentle slope with a bridge you always like to kiss, to get a rare glimpse of an ears-burning-red bashful Jango Fett. Dropping down to a valley leading a trail to his lips, which are surprisingly never really chapped. A mouth that slants against yours as if it was made for you and yours for it.

You can’t remember the last time you truly looked at your husband. Drank him in from head til toe, devoured him by sight to hold his image within you. Every glance had been fleeting, every conversation held over an action so you wouldn’t have to look, busying yourself with tea and coffee and anything else that demanded your eyes. Three years, if you had to truly guess. When Boba left for the institute, when Jango started working longer hours, his time dominated by the Count. When you had nothing to distract you or fill your days and nights. Sun rises and goes back down. No energy, no desire. Nothing except bitterness that you’d agreed to give up everything to come live here. Here in middle of bum fuck nowhere. Protected yes, safe here on these grounds surrounded by nothing but vicious waves and dark woods. Strong gates and a panic room in the basement, should a cockroach from Jangos line of work ever get any ideas.

You couldn’t have imagined the real form that threat would arrive in. It wasn’t a man dressed in a black bavaclava and goggles, with a brown sack tossed over his shoulder. No, it came draped in the finest of cloaks and wielding the power of man who pulls strings that you can’t even fathom. Friends in all the high places and fingers in every pie. The kind of threat that doesn’t need to break in though a window at midnight with guns and knives, not when it has your son under its watchful eye and your husband leashed to his side. As for you…well. You are your own biggest threat.

At some point, your trembling fingers join his resting on his lap and he holds them tightly between his warm hands. Rough callouses rub patterns into the flesh, and eventually, he falls silent. He still hasn’t looked at you. He’s made several aborted attempts to and falls short every time. You don’t mind. You understand.You clear your throat and hesitate, just a moment, before speaking. 

“Is that why you haven’t gone back yet?”, your eyes flicker to the corner of the room, to those clawed feet. “I was wondering…I had thought that maybe jobs had dried up.”

He presses his lips together and gives you a wry smile. “Certainly no shortage of jobs, but-”, he falls silent, struggling to find the words. Finally, he lifts his eyes to meet yours. “I’m not keen to go back to the Count. Whatever his ultimate goal is, it isn’t anything good and it’s not something I want to drag our family into. I’ve already been involved too long”

There’s a sorrow there, deep in the warm brown depths of his eyes and it brings an ache so debilitating to your heart that for a second you think it might bring you to tears. You nod at him, and squeeze his hand. Can’t summon forth any further words to grace your tongue tonight. Inhaling deeply, you tilt your head until it rests on his shoulder and then bury it further, cold nose burrowing into the crook of his neck and making him shiver. One hand clasped in his, the other glides up his arm in firm strokes. A touch of softness to reassure him, an increment of pressure to ground him. Tonight, he needs you, needs his wife to stay with him and as you listen to his breathing slow, move your hand to feel his heartbeat beneath your palm, you can’t imagine ever desiring to sleep without him again.


	6. Chapter 6

You drift awake to the dancing trills of birdsong, and blissful respite from the ever constant pitter patter of chilled winter rain. Jangos room is bathed in soft golden light, bleeding through the gauzy curtains from the large windows. Lifting a heavy hand to rub the crust from your eyes, you then snuggle further into your pillow. It's warm and gently rises and falls, lulling you into relaxation. You inch closer to your warm hot water bottle, and tangle your legs between it’s-

Wait. Hang on a minute.

You force your eyes open again and inhale sharply. Jango sleeps beside you, your head resting on his shoulder and chest, legs entwined in his. He emits heat like a furnace, always has, and it must be what kept you warm last night despite lying on top of the blankets. You want to twist and look behind you, check if the fire is still smouldering but you don’t want to look away from him or rouse him. Its been so long since you’ve last seen him so vulnerable. Slept beside him, bodies pressed together. Soft slumbering breaths, his smooth forehead free from creases. 

His shirt has rode up through the night, to just above the dip of his hip, and you greedily drink in the expanse of his bare skin. The sheets smell like him, and you realise with relish that when you leave his bed today you’ll smell like him too, wear him with you all day. 

Something else begins to stir, as you bask in the honeyed moments. Something deeper, syrupy and slow in the pit of your stomach. A tactile history of a short lifetime spending lazy Sunday mornings together, unhurried movements beneath the sheets, breathy groans in your ear, too tired to think to quiet his sounds. Sleepy mornings with Jango have always been your favourite.  


To enjoy them with him again, after the best and most honest interaction the two of you have had in years feels like heaven. To hear his heartbeat beneath your ears, feel his strong arm curled under you and around your waist to keep you snug to his side.  
Your breath hitches in your throat, and you lick your lips, smooth your hand down that tantalising strip of flesh bared by his ruched shirt. Hear him softly grunt in response. Inch up so that your head is tucked back in the crook of his neck where you hesitate ever so slightly, before reaching in to press a delicate kiss to his fluttering pulse beneath his jaw. Continue tracing circles, arcing wider each time, til your fingers come up to trace just under his pec and then down, slip past his waistband to tickle the sensitive skin there.

You are careful to keep your movements mindful, press only a few light kisses. It has been a while since either of you have felt close enough to touch like this, and the last thing you want to do is move too fast.

Eventually, he begins to twitch his fingers and move his head against the pillow. His toes curl and he groans lightly. You watch him with eager eyes, a fuzziness in your chest at getting to be a part of this intimate process again. His head shifts towards you, and he groggily blinks open heavy lids framed by dark lashes. Gorgeous. 

You don’t realise the word has slipped from your lips until his mouth twitches up at the side and he hums quietly in his chest, hand around your waist briefly tightening. Your cheeks heat at the admission and his subsequent acceptance of your affection, as if you are in the early stages of courting and not a decade married. 

Still, you are welcome to the rush of giddyness that flows through you when he leans in to nudge his nose against yours and simply share your breath. He is still fully waking up, content to lie here and be still with you in the meantime. 

“Good morning”, you murmur softly and he smiles at you in return. Bright and brilliant, akin to the sun breaking over the horizon after a long night or a long winters toil. An honest genuine smile with crinkled eyes and then he is slanting his mouth over yours. Closed-mouth and chaste and he tastes like sleep, but god help you, you cant stop the high-pitched moan that escapes you anyway. His lips are so soft, and they send little frissons through you from where they brush against the soft flesh of your own lips.

He breaks away first, but stays a hairs breadth from your face. He still wears a lazy curl of the lips and his hand begins to rub back and forth on your waist. His other hand reaches up between you both, to rest his pinky finger right next to yours. An extended olive branch. (I want you. Do you want me?) You hold his gaze with softened eyes and your own smile, and slowly cross your pinky over his. (Yes. I want to try again).


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Domesticity/Barefootedness/The most relaxing word in our vocabulary is 'we'./Imagine being able to say 'we'."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys cop that updated rating;) this chapter contains some ~petting~ and smut but its not too descriptive. However if you're squicked out by any of that feel free to skip this chapter and tune in for the next one, you wont miss anything plot wise❤️

It isn’t long before your grumbling tummy lets itself be known, Jangos quick to follow. You sigh and bring his knuckles to your mouth to lay one last kiss on them before rolling out of bed. Behind you, Jango moans weakly and you spin around to catch him massaging the limb you had lain on all night. He catches your gaze and offers you a pained grimace. 

“Probably should’ve swapped my arms in shifts eh?”

The laugh that falls from your lips comes easy and carefree as you promise him a hot breakast in thanks for his hard nights toil. You make your way downstairs on feet lighter than air, head not in the clouds or the past or this and that but _here_. Lounge clothes from yesterday that smell like Jangos sheets, lips still tingling from the kiss he pressed to them this morning, on your way to make him breakfast because you genuinely want to. Your hips sway as you fill the kettle and the kitchen is filled with little lilting hums as you chop chives and onion. You get the eggs from the press and set them next to the hob before finishing up your tea and Jangos coffee. Then, a knob of butter into the pot, crack the eggs in, a drop of milk. You don’t hear the soft pad of his bare feet against the wooden floor, too distracted in adding in the herbs and onions, a touch of Tabasco sau- and _oh_!

Strong arms wind around your waist, pull you flush against his chest as he murmus hello before pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck. He watches you whisk the eggs, throw in a pinch of salt, and then he licks the shell of your ear so that you squeal. 

“Jango! I’m busy, I’m trying to cook this for you too y’know”, but your voice shakes and dies out as he begins to suck bruises up and down the length of your neck, slide his hand to the waistband of your leggings to play with the strings. You falter at his ministrations, distracted by the pleasure, and your eyes begin to drift closed unintentionally. He takes notice of your hand stilling it’s movements, clenching the whisk tightly, and he reaches down to land a light tap to your clit. You cry out at the electric thrill it sends through you and open your eyes wide as he growls into your ear.

“You gonna let those eggs burn baby? Eyes on the stove now or I stop”

Slowly, you begin to stir the eggs again, making sure nothing sticks to the bottom of the pot. Jango rewards you with a nip to your pulse, before pushing his hand up under your shirt, calloused fingertips trailing flames on your flesh. He takes his time teasing you, drawing wide circles around your stiff peaks but never quite making direct contact. Soon, the eggs are done and as you twist the knob to stop the flow of gas and lift the pot from the hob top, he suddenly moves his other hand from your trousers to join the other and pinches both of your nipples harshly. You slam the pot back down and arch into his touch, whimpering his name.  
He sucks your earlobe between his teeth and gives your sensitive nipples one more tug before removing his hands from you completely. 

“No”, you whine and twist your head around to look at him, voice high and desperate. “Come back, why did you stop?”

Jango smirks at you and grabs the pot, begins dishing the eggs out into two bowls. He puts on toast and then manoeuvres around you to get the berries from the fridge. “I don’t want breakfast to go cold sweetheart”, he pecks your lips and hands you your tea. Sipping his coffee, he raises an eyebrow. “Not after your spent all that effort preparing it for us. That would be rude, wouldn’t it?”

“I..”, you trail off weakly and bite your lip. You can’t think of anything to say, mind slow from the haze his touch settles over you.

He carries your bowls and the berry carton to the table, ushering you with him and pulling out your chair for you. The scrape of toast being buttered, and then the weight of a hand on your shoulder, bracing himself to lean down and set two slices in front of you. Sat across from you, he is the picture of poise, a perfect gentleman. Not a hair out of place as he scoops up his eggs onto a slice of toast and crunches into it. You, on the other hand, feel like a flustered maiden from a stuffy book. Hot around the collar and squirming in your seat as you avoid the burning coals of his eyes and focus on your fare.

The minute he sets his fork to the side and swabs a napkin over his mouth, you are out of your seat and pulling his chair back from the table to yank him out of it.

“Hey, hey what’s all thi-“, he protests with a curved mouth and a glimmer in his eye, and when you cut him off with your lips over his he laughs softly into you and  
tugs you closer with an arm around your back.

You lead him out of the kitchen, to the sunroom. Seat him where you’d longed to be with him not so long ago, and then you pull him over you so he swallows you with his broad shoulders. Cages you in on the sofa with his thick thighs and curled biceps. Clinging to his neck for dear life and whining into his mouth wantonly, you twist your fingers into the locks at the back of head and yank until he releases a throaty groan of his own. He shoves his hand between you to tug at his slacks while you push down your leggings and panties and then the blunt tip of his head is spearing inside you, rough and desperate. You gasp his name like a mantra until it is all you know and he whispers yours in tandem, links your fingers together and grips your hip for better leverage.

Later, as he rests his head on your heaving chest and you play with his hair, you promise yourself to never let things get so bad again. Now that you have your husband back, lay next to him with bare skin and a bare heart, you don’t know how you survived without him.


	8. Chapter 8

Boba’s letter does indeed finally arrive Monday morning, carried in by Agatha along with the weeks groceries. You and Jango read it together at the kitchen table over your respective hot drinks. You sit at the same side, shoulders paired together, sharing fond chuckles and wistful murmurs. His fingers brush against yours as you both trace over the ink and admire how neat Boba’s letters have become. Then, Jango carefully sets the letter aside and you both put your heads together to go over your plan.

When noon rolls around, you mutually agree to take a break and enjoy the temporary ceasefire from the blustering rain and wind while you can. You rush up the stairs and to your bedroom like an excited child while in the other wing, Jango does the exact same. Rendezvousing downstairs by the entrance hall, he takes your gloved hand in his and then leans in close to press a shy kiss to the apple of your cheek. Your face burns redhot in response and he gives a soft laugh, before tugging open the heavy front door and ushering you through into the crisp air.

“Fuck”, you can’t help but mutter as the biting chill instantly nips at your ears. He shuts the door behind him and then squeezes your hand. “What?”, he raises an eyebrow at you and you shake your head ruefully. “A little cold isn’t it?”. He clicks his tongue and reaches into his pocket to pull out a beanie exactly the same as the one he wears over his soft curls. Pulling it over your head, he quirks the corner of his lip at you.

“Better?”

You grin at him. “Much”.

Hand in hand, you curve around to the back of the house and to the little laneway that stretches down to the hopefully docile coast. Neither of you speaks much, content to just leave the air empty and be with each other in the moment. For once, the silence doesn’t feel like a punishment or a physical heavy presence. It feels calm and natural. His gaze still frequently darts around, searching for threats and potential hazards instinctively, but his shoulders are loose and his mouth relaxed. 

The ground is dredged with the remnants of the last storm and the thick mud clings to your boots with each raised heave of a leg. Hedges filled with gnarled berries and ferns, and little birds singing from within, telling their winged friends about the viable fruit they’ve found. The sparkle in your eye dims a little, thinking about the brilliant yellow of the gorse bushes back home. Buttery tangled bush curling back in on itself, pinpricks of merciless thorns digging into your calves and shoulders as you’d push past it on your hike, wriggling over old stone walls and under farmers wire. The grief you carry for the rolling hills and resilient flora of your home is constant and heavy, nestled right between your ribs. An eternal ache. This beautiful coast and lonely forest is close, so close, but just different enough in the subtleties for you to never forget it is not quite home.

Maybe that’s selfish of you. This is Jangos home, the turbulent waves and deep copse where he grew up and learned the ways of his forefathers, as they would have trained back in their territory long ago in a long lost place. Would it not be as cruel for you to take him from here? Bring him with you to a foreign land with a foreign tongue and foreign people. But the image of him in a shadowy intimate pub, drinking firewater, surrounded by your family on a land you know intimately and which will always protect you and your kin is beautiful. Little Boba sat on your knee, speaking your language with his cousins, sandwiched between his mother and father who share their affections openly and freely.

Beside you, real flesh and blood, Jango nudges your hip with his own. Meeting his gaze you offer him a reassuring smile and come back to the present. The scent of salt comes riding on the light breeze and the little laneway twists until you turn a final bend, and the wide expanse of the rolling waves fills your view. The tide is out, revealing a blanket of rocks stretching along the shoreline. Smooth and round from the force of the tide. He leads you a boulder, even and flat enough for you both to sit on, and then wraps his arm around you to rest on your hip. Tucking your head into his neck, you sigh and watch the waves. In and out, softly crashing on top of each other. His thumb rubs back and forth idly against your coat, and glancing at his profile, you slip into your hand into his unoccupied one resting on his lap. You hum in your throat as you grab it, amused at the contrast of his bare skin against your cotton gloves. 

“Such a tough guy you don’t need gloves to bear the elements huh?”

Jango laughs at you, and schools his face into something poised and smug. “Of course. Let it be known that Jango Fett, fiercest bounty hunter around, won’t be brought down by cold fingers”

Furious giggles bubbling out of you, you reach up to caress his cheek with your free hand. “That’s so stupid. What even was that?”. He snorts with you, sparkle in his dark eyes, “Made you laugh though didn’t I? Mission accomplished I say”.

Shoulders still quivering with laughter, you tug his face down towards you and capture his lips with your own. He tastes of sea salt. Curling your hand into his locks underneath his hat, you break away briefly to catch a breath and then he’s swooping back in to slip his tongue into the hot cavern of your mouth and slowly stroke it against yours. His big hand around your side steadies you, as you shift to wrap both hands around his neck and press closer to him. Your lips slide against each other with the ease of an action well practiced, his mouth knowing yours as the sand knows the sea. The soft swoosh of the water provides an idyllic backdrop to the intimate scene but you can barely hear it anyway, all your senses focused on Jango.

He nips your lip and growls, and that’s it – the final straw. You swing your leg up over his hip to straddle his lap, the rough rock not kind to your knees but you don’t care. You scratch down his neck with your nails at the same time you tug sharply on the shorter hair at the back of his head. He slides his hands down your back to grip at your ass, push you down onto his lap while he bucks his hips up to rock against your core. A sharp gasp leaves your spit-shined lips and you open your eyes to fix your half-lidded gaze on him. His pupils are so blown that there’s only the slimmest ring of brown surrounding them. His breaths are fast, nostrils flared, and seeing him like this makes your stomach tighten and your thighs clench.

His breath ghosts across your lips as he speaks, voice gravelled and low. “We shouldn’t do this here-“, his voice breaks into a groan when you interrupt him with a smooth roll of your hips. You kiss him again lightly and nod your head in agreement. “Yes probably not. Don’t know how we’d explain to Boba that daddy’s bedridden because his dick caught a chill”. Jango chuckles with you and then claps his hand down onto your ass, making you whimper and press further into him. “Cheeky minx”.

He stands back up, knees creaking in protest, and carefully sets you down on your own two feet. You take his hand again, knowing that jokes aside they probably are actually quite cold without his own protective layer of gloves. He is still, gaze cast out over the shore, and you admire his side profile against the harsh landscape. He’s watching the hungry waves come in, lapping closer and closer. Pensive and focused. His gaze travels from the curve of the stones, to the seaweed further on by the laced edges of the froth, to the stretching headland to your left. Taking it in, you realise. Memorising it. 

You press closer to him and ignore the steadily crueller gusts of wind and the dappling iced water droplets they bring. Hand in his, side by side.


End file.
